


Time and Time Again

by incorrigibleIxoreus



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, SBURB, Sadstuck, Sober Gamzee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrigibleIxoreus/pseuds/incorrigibleIxoreus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first time you see him, he is shiny.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Now that may up and all be a strange word to make use in describing at a friend, but it's the first and most fitting what comes into your thinkpan, when you twist it back-ways to look in on that one memory, as you so often lately seem to get at doing.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Shiny.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Bright-eyed.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Twitchy shy motherfucker with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a hitch to his shoulders that mumbles for him in the language of nervousness on being so far from hive, all up and out here by the sea--but with a half-confident grin that sings miracles of trust what your brother has in you, has in everyone but himself. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>[A story about how it all began, and how it all ends.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Time Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kingtumbleweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtumbleweed/gifts).



The first time you see him, he is shiny.  
Now that may up and all be a strange word to make use in describing at a friend, but it's the first and most fitting what comes into your thinkpan, when you twist it back-ways to look in on that one memory, as you so often lately seem to get at doing.  
Shiny.  
Bright-eyed.  
Twitchy shy motherfucker with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a hitch to his shoulders that mumbles for him in the language of nervousness on being so far from hive, all up and out here by the sea--but with a half-confident grin that sings miracles of trust what your brother has in you, has in everyone but himself.

A half a tick goes by with you just kind of grinning back at him, eyes slack-lidded and mind basking in the miracle that up and all is him and you and being there and existing all at once in that very moment, before his smile falters ever so slightly and his feet shuffle with a gentle rhythm like a flustered flapbeast's wing and your pan shakes itself back into all remembering what you were supposed to be making at saying.

"Tavbro, motherfucker, make with the movement and get your sweet miracle self all up and in this hive, brother...make yourself at home."

And with that, another miracle unfolded right before your very oculars, as all that worry all knotted up inside your brownblooded troll brother just up and unknotted its motherfucking self, and the grin what spread across his mouth was sopor sweet with relief.

"I, uh, thought maybe I'd, you know, come to the wrong hive, or something?"

He laughed, and you quick-like get your understand on to the lilt and rhythm of his quirk all as though he were typing at you with his mouth just then, and your grin widens, mirroring off his, caught up in the miracle of that in and of itself, and for another half-tick you just about get lost thinking of words and colours and typed-up faces all up surrounding and reflecting in the wondertroll standing for real right in front of you. This time, however, reassured and newly confident, your very best good friend softens a bit in the eyes and grabs your wrist himself, pulling you after him into your own hive as though he up and owned the place.  
You don't mind, anyway--and it's so good to hear him laugh.

The second time you see him is perigees later, and all the more a motherfucking miracle for that it wasn't planned nor expected.  
This time you're sprawled out on your back in the soft-rough sand tide-side, surrounded by empty pie tins and barely conscious, making a mirthful swoon on up at the bendy beauty of the clouds at near dawn. You barely even recognized him for all what he was, seeming like to be a vision of silhouette chocolate grey dipped in curdled sopor green and cloying hot pink, all like some mirthforsaken grub sundae left out to spoil.  
The salt caked on your heels from just after sundown is just beginning to be licked off by the incoming waves and the sky is just starting to all up and shift in its miracle hues, and you want to watch--but once again he grabs your wrist, and straining for all his wiggler-muscle and stockiness; you are like an unkempt motherfucking pile of wreckage, lost at sea, beached and unhelpful.  
  
He disappears from your cloud of consciousness for what seems like eons and the sinking moons take your mind again for all it's up and worth--which ain't much, to be honest--and then reappears in the form of a great and unsettling heave up under your armpits and through your cardial basket.  
You don't mind this time, either, as he drags your bony remnants back into your hive once again--not that you had much mind to make at minding anything in that state, even so.  
But the next night, when he is still worry-worn and exhausted and curled up wiggler-small in your 'coon, and you venture up and out onto the beach again, and you up and see that long-ass trail your dragging ankle-bones must've made, you feel something what might be making at pity chewing at your pan, and more than a little lick of regrettingness.

He stays for a week, this time, and the two of you jam shit out with spit-fire awful-ass miracle rap battles, and the nagging ache in your pan from the sameness of too much and too little pie up and almost soothes itself with the mirthful domesticity of it all.  
When he leaves, he makes you most solemnly promise to be better about up and tending to things, most notably of which being yourself, and you gnaw your lip raw before his overwhelming optimism, slightly crumpled all up by discontented concern, up and infects your pumpbiscuit like a coronary and fills you up with miracles all over again.  
You promise.  
He goes.

The third time you see him, he is cracked.  
There's a deep rift all through his miracle shininess, a hitch all through his smile and a downward-inward sweep to his shoulders what never ought belong there and sets you downright on edge in the most pan-shaking way.  
Ain't no special occasion, ain't no surprise--but a brother's been talking something wicked down on himself as of late, and when he brushes off another and another and another mirthful invitation --well, this time you up and offer to visit him yourself, make with the wicked domesticities and see if you can't soothe what you can't just up and see yet.  
But when you do arrive, what you do see does not ease your twisted biscuit even in the motherfucking slightest.

Your shiny brother's been malefactored in the worst of ways, half a lip-twist away from cullbait: motherfucker's chairbound. And what's worse, that old worry is back up in his eyes all and over again, something akin to fear what makes even your sopor-sleepy jaw want to grind itself to wakefulness and a pin-prick twitch behind the back of your oculars.  
But you make quick at tucking it away before he notices, stooping awkward and low to sweep him into the biggest and most jagged of hugs, all elbow-ends and bumpy ribs and throat knots, horns clacking and jaw clenched.  
It's harder to make at thinking again, although this kinda pan-stick is different from the usual whispery-whimsical dreamlove what makes itself home in your cranial nug, but you go for trying the best at what you can.

This time you stay a perigee and a half.  
You're not much of any kind of good with helping around the house, as it were, and being what with not having any extra allowances on terms of sopor, pies are out of the question--but for your shiny-cracked-soilsweet bro you make at being mirthful all regardless of such. The two of you play fiduspawn, in a manner of speaking, what with your pan still not quite wrapped around what exactly fiduspawn is meant at being, no matter how many times Tavbro makes at patiently elucidating to you the rules and such over and over again--but it makes him brighten up, just a bit, all the same.  
  
So you play, and you rap, and you make at doing your best impression of Lusus with cleaning up the place and fixing things, even as half of everything you touch gets left only half-done.  
And half of you wants to stay and never leave, but there's a rot in your pan and an ache in your bones and eventually all of everything getting at being entirely too clear starts to chew your guts to ribbons, and you have to go. His face falls when you finally grind out the suggestion, even as he tries for hiding it, and you find yourself wishing you'd kept your pietrap zipped.  
The next night you write him up a big long note full of faces and smiles to keep him for until you get back to your own hive and can talk at him yourself, and you leave it tucked up against the seat of his chair, all pushed mirthful close to his 'coon what shouldn't give him any wicked trouble at finding it. Might be a motherfucking cowardly way to make an exit, but the grinding in your bones is bad enough without that look on your best good friend's face adding its own chew on into the mix. Besides, you reason; this way he's gone and got himself a nice souvenir-like present all left behind to keep for himself of you.

The next time you see him, he is shattered.  
He is all up in smiles for sorrow, donning yellow and flying high and much as like anything else refusing to come down.  
His lips don't move all that much with the miraculous noise what used to pour in dividends out on the refuge of your company, and there's a shift to his eyes so as it looks as though he's seeing all manner of other things than what is right before his face, and it twists at your pan like a kind of mirthful-sick deja vu, some wicked kind of twisted mirror where your own good self is all swapped into his horns and his skin and his guts all right before in front of you, and you don't quite know what to make of it.  
And motherFUCK but do your bones ACHE, and your pan ITCHES, and there's needles all up and getting their WICKED GROOVE on in your oculars and your tongue.  
  
So you don't worry on it too much, but to just when you're up and before getting your wander on through the corridors again you make at tending to your sadbro, curled up in his chair like a lost mewlbeast for ages and motherfucking AGES, and what can you DO. For a brother what won't talk, what won't jam, what just sleeps and sleeps and motherfucking SLEEPS.  
You tuck your softest fucking horns up and under his fluff-buzzed head, horn-tilt and cheek-pressed, and so there you leave him to make at breaking through this awful TWITCH in your thumbs by cracking into what wicked miracles your little old planet has left hiding away from you.

The last time you see him, he is gone.  
In what looks like his wicked motherfucking EYES and what look like his wicked motherfucking HORNS and what look like his wicked motherfucking FINGERS and his wicked motherfucking NUG ain't no mirthful sign nor fucking song of any whisper at what makes your miracle bro himself. Ain't naught but fickle fucking BLOOD all pooled up and congealing like sweet chocolate fucking slime, gumming up your fingernails and sticking on your teeth.  
Ain't no motherfucking RESUSCITATION what can be taking place, no miracle motherfucking RESURRECTION for your best of best good friends in this filthy dark shithole as can be fucking found. More as to be like RETRIBUTION for a brother, slick and swift and filthy like running rivermud blood. If as to be what one motherfucker ain't breathing, then what makes its difference if up and NO motherfucker is breathing?  
You can barely see a damn thing and the pins up behind and between your oculars and your pan have vacated for all the wicked favour of a STICKY kind of fire, and there's no sopor to be had.  
  
You want your motherfucking MIRACLES back, you want the swayed colours and blooming bursting star-moons fading on salt-wet horizons.  
You want your fucking CARNIVAL what was PROMISED at you.  
What was promised at you ON MOTHERFUCKING HIGH.  
And if the motherfucking CARNIVAL isn't coming to town, then it looks like maybe you'll just have to have at making a go of your OWN.  
  
Motherfuck, maybe it was just WAITING for YOU all along.


End file.
